Page 14 of October: The Odd Ones, Stories of Love and Grovel

The next morning came slow, thick with dread. My body moved through the motions, shower, coffee, clothes, but my mind was stuck somewhere back on the porch, where October had looked me in the eyes and told me she was done. Where Jimmy told me to leave us alone. Where everything that mattered fell out from under me.

I was mid-sip when my phone buzzed—Dad. Of course. I braced myself and answered.

"Hello?"

"Finally,"

he snapped.

"How come you didn't answer my calls yesterday? Even Laura's been trying to reach you. She was worried."

I rubbed my temple.

"Sorry, Dad. I was busy."

"Busy,"

he echoed with disdain.

"Right. As usual. I can't rely on you. Thank god for Laura—at least she doesn't disappear when things get serious."

I didn't respond.

"We're leaving for Portugal in a few days. It's all in motion. Pack your things, get your head straight, and be ready. Understood?"

"Yes, Dad,"

I muttered.

Click. He hung up, like always. No goodbye. No pause. No space to be a human being.

I turned around.

"So,"

I said.

"We're acting soon, right?"

Mom nodded. Across the room, the attorney—Langley—didn't even look up from his folder. "Yes,"

he confirmed.

Langley looked at Mom, then back at me.

"We move money. Quietly. We tip off the right people—federal auditors, IRS, SEC. We give them just enough to make them start digging. The rest... the rest comes from the collapse itself."

I blinked, trying to follow.

"You want to call the feds."

"Yes,"

Langley said.

"But we do it smart. We don't just give them dirt. We give them blood. The kind that stains everything he touches. We have enough evidence."

"How do you even have access to the trust? The accounts? Mom?"

I asked, my voice low, disbelieving.

"Because your father,"

she began slowly.

"trusted me more than he realized. Or maybe less, depending on how you look at it."

She looked up at me, her gaze level and steady.

"Years ago, he got sick. Nothing public—just a serious health scare. There was a period where he wasn't sure he'd be able to run the company, handle the estate, manage everything. He needed someone he trusted absolutely. Not a business partner. Not even you. Me."

I blinked.

"I didn't know he—"

"Of course you didn't. He didn't want you to. He didn't want anyone to know he was vulnerable. So he brought me into the fold—quietly. Gave me power of attorney, full access to the trust, the company holdings, all of it. I was supposed to be the contingency plan."

She gave a small, bitter laugh.

"And then he recovered. Just like that. Got back to his empire. Never looked back. Never changed a thing. He forgot, or maybe just assumed I'd never use it. That I was too loyal. Too small. Too dependent to bite the hand that fed me. And he was right, I never thought of using it."

"Now you just keep pretending,"

Langley said.

"Go with them. Stay close. The Portugal trip is crucial. Final step. Once we file, we'll make it hurt."

I swallowed. Something didn't sit right. It hadn't for a while, but now it twisted.

"About that, I am not going," I said.

Langley looked up, sharp. "What?"

"I'm not going,"

I repeated, my voice steady but resolute.

"You need to,"

he replied, annoyance creeping into his tone.

"You're the key to the whole thing. They won't see it coming if you play your part."

"I said no. I can't believe I already hurt my wife this much. I won't do anything more."

My voice didn't rise, but the room shifted—colder now. Heavier. Like even the air understood something sacred was breaking.

Langley blinked, like he couldn't compute the words. His brows furrowed, a mix of confusion and irritation pinching his face.

"She's divorcing you, Thomas. You said it yourself."

"She is."

I nodded slowly, each syllable scraping its way up my throat. The weight of the truth didn't feel lighter for being spoken aloud. If anything, it sunk deeper into my chest like stones in water.

"But does that mean I get to hurt her more? Just because she's leaving?"

Langley scoffed under his breath and shook his head.

"This isn't about her. It's about your father. About your future. Your name. Your legacy."

"Screw that,"

I muttered, but my voice came out small, fractured, like the rest of me. It wasn't anger anymore. It was grief in disguise.

"I already lost my family,"

I said, barely above a whisper.

"And half the time, I still can't believe it's real. Like maybe if I just do better, say the right things, show up enough times... I can undo it somehow."

I paused, swallowing hard.

"But if I go there, if I take that step, cross that line, it's not just betrayal anymore. It's final. There's no coming back from that. No apology big enough. No explanation that doesn't sound like a lie. It would make everything I've ruined... permanent."

I sank into the chair like it might keep me from collapsing entirely. Langley opened his mouth to speak, to fire off another strategic point, another rational reason why I should play the role and sacrifice what little soul I had left. But I raised a hand. Not in anger. Not to silence him with force. Just enough to say: Enough.

"I can't do it anymore,"

I said, the words tumbling out before I could soften them.

"I can't keep banking on October's kindness. On her patience. On the way she used to look at me like I was still worth something."

Langley leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, jaw tight. He didn't speak at first, just stared at me like I was a liability now instead of an ally. Finally, he exhaled sharply through his nose.

"So what do you propose now?"

he asked, clipped, annoyed. I turned to him, something bitter curling behind my teeth.

"I don't know. You're the lawyer, aren't you?"

I gestured broadly at the file-strewn table between us.

"You tell me what the hell we're supposed to do now. But I've got more pressing things to handle."

I don't even remember how I ended up there, just that I was suddenly standing behind a row of parents at the edge of a soccer field, half-shadowed by the late afternoon sun, watching my son.

Jimmy.

His name echoed through me like a prayer I'd stopped saying, familiar, sacred, and heavy with guilt. There he was. Running across the field in that scrappy red uniform, weaving between defenders, calling for the ball with a sharp confidence I hadn't realized he'd grown into. His movements were fluid, self-assured, like the field was a second home.

When was the last time I came to one of these? I couldn't remember, and that in itself was damning. October had always handled the practices, the tournaments, the little day-to-day things that built memories and trust. She'd text me photos, Jimmy mid-kick, sweaty and smiling, sometimes with a medal around his neck. She'd send me videos when I asked, even though she'd be the one recording, cheering, clapping with real pride in the background.

And me? I'd show up later, never for the whole game, never for the early mornings or the muddy jerseys or the post-match tears—but just long enough to be seen. Just long enough to say I was there. I'd hand him a new pair of cleats, still smelling of rubber and untouched grass. Maybe a soccer ball signed by some mid-tier player I barely knew, but figured he might like. Or a cake from that overpriced bakery he once said was his favorite, back when he was eight and everything I brought home still felt like magic.

I'd pat him on the back, tousle his hair like a commercial-dad caricature, and say I was proud, and I believed it—God, I believed it. I told myself that was love. That was fatherhood. That showing up once in a while with a gift in one hand and a distracted smile on my face counted. That I'd earned something. That I was doing enough.

Because I worked hard. I kept the lights on. I paid for everything. I built a name. I brought home the trophies, the promotions, the investments. That had to mean something, didn't it?

That was love. Wasn't it? Providing. Showing up every now and then. Smiling. Handing over a wrapped box.

How stupid can one man be?

How blind?

Because while I was measuring love in receipts and ribbons, he was growing up without me. Learning to navigate the world without my guidance. Becoming the kind of young man I didn't teach him to be, but the kind his mother did. It was all my fault. Not circumstance. Not the job. Not my father. Me.

My choices. My distractions. My priorities.

I told myself I was doing what I had to. That I was building something for them, for my wife, for my kids. But what good is a kingdom if no one feels safe inside it? What good is an empire if I'm the reason it crumbles? And now? Now I'm standing in the wreckage, smoke still rising, asking myself why I ever thought legacy meant more than love.

The world felt quieter now. I stood behind the other parents, half-hiding, feeling like an imposter in my own child's life. They were all laughing, talking, invested. I was just a ghost with a guilty conscience. At the end of practice, I stayed still. I didn't want to distract him. Didn't want to shift the mood. I just watched him, really watched him.

Jimmy laughed with his teammates. He offered the coach a hand gathering cones and gear. He tousled a younger boy's hair, gave a high-five to a girl who looked like she'd been crying after missing a goal. And then, he smiled at someone. A girl standing by the fence, eyes shy, cheeks pink. That smile, that hesitant flicker of something more, it hit me like a punch.

When did my baby grow up?

He grabbed his bag and turned to leave. That's when he saw me. His whole body froze. I saw it, shock first. His eyebrows lifted. Then confusion, his step faltering. Then anger, the subtle tension in his jaw, and finally, something worse: panic.

He dropped his bag and jogged over fast. Not out of joy. Out of fear.

"Dad, what's wrong? Is Mom okay?"

His voice was tight, breath catching as he fumbled for his phone, fingers already dialing.

My heart shattered. He saw me—just me—and his first instinct was to think something terrible had happened. That's how disconnected I'd become. That's how little he expected me to be here for him. I reached out and gently caught his wrist.

"Hey..hey,"

I said softly.

"Everyone's fine."

He looked up at me warily.

"Then... what are you doing here?"

I tried to smile but my lips barely moved.

"I called your mom earlier. Asked if I could take you home today instead."

His eyes narrowed. "Why?"

"Just wanted to talk,"

I said.

"Maybe get something to eat."

He blinked.

"Again... why?"

A lump rose in my throat. I tried to swallow it down.

"Because I have some things to tell you."

He didn't say anything after that. Just gave me a stiff nod, eyes guarded, and followed me silently to the car. I unlocked the doors and we both slid in, the quiet between us louder than any argument we'd ever had.

The engine hummed to life, but the silence between us didn't budge. I kept trying. Small questions. Safe ones.

"How's school?"

"Fine."

"You like the new coach?"

"He's okay."

"You still playing guitar?"

"Sometimes."

Each answer hit the dashboard like a pebble. No spark, no rhythm. Just a wall I knew I'd built and was now begging to be let through. I pulled into a small café off the main road. Jimmy followed me without comment. We didn't go inside. Instead, I ordered at the window, one coffee and one scoop of cookies and cream—his favorite, I remembered too late.

We found a nearby park bench under the shade of a wide, weathered tree. I handed him the cone. He didn't thank me. I didn't expect him to. I just sat beside him, coffee cupped in my palms like it was something to hold on to.

A few seconds passed. Then a minute. The sun was starting to dip behind the rooftops. The air smelled like grass and distant barbecue. But in that moment, all I could smell was regret.

I cleared my throat and started.

"I'm sorry Jimmy."

The words came out flat and unceremonious. No speech. No lead-up. Just the truth, exposed and vulnerable.

"I've been absent,"

I said, my voice low but steady.

"Not just physically—though God knows I missed too many dinners, too many games, too many ordinary moments. I've been absent in all the ways that really matter. Emotionally. Mentally. I let the noise of work and responsibility drown out the sound of your voice... of your mom's voice. I thought if I kept everything afloat, it was enough."

I shook my head and stared out at the open field, where the last of the kids were starting to wander off with their parents.

"I was ignorant,"

I went on.

"And arrogant. I thought being a provider made me a good man. A good father. I thought if I just showed up every now and then—with a box of your favorite cookies, or the new soccer ball you circled in the catalog—that it counted. That it added up to love."

A breeze rustled through the trees above us, catching the tips of Jimmy's hair and making the shadows dance on the grass. A few dry leaves broke free from their branches, spiraling downward like slow-falling confessions. One landed by my shoe, crumbling at the edges, weightless and brittle.

"But that wasn't love,"

I whispered, almost afraid of hearing myself say it.

"It was convenience. It was fear. I convinced myself I was doing enough because it was easier than asking what you actually needed. Easier than listening. Easier than showing up every single day, not with gifts, but with presence."

My eyes stung, but I didn't look away.

"It was the bare minimum,"

I said.

"But I dressed it up and called it devotion. I gave you crumbs, Jimmy. And I convinced myself it was a feast. I was so sure I was doing right by you, that I was being a man you could be proud of. But the truth is... I was hiding behind my excuses. Behind my silence. Behind what was comfortable."

I let the words hang there for a while. Not because I expected a response, but because I didn't deserve one. Because I needed to sit in the silence I had created over the years. Then, softer, because my voice couldn't hold the weight anymore, I said.

"It's all my fault."

The words came out stripped bare, no excuses left to cling to.

"I'm sorry if I haven't said it enough. I'm sorry if I said it too late. But I do love you, Jims. More than you can imagine. More than I ever knew how to say. And I'm sorry I failed to show you."

I looked at him, really looked this time. At the boy who was becoming a man right in front of me. At the same time a stranger and my son. His face was unreadable.

"I thought I was doing the right thing. Providing. Protecting. Working myself hollow so you'd never feel what I did growing up. But somewhere along the way, I mistook presence for pressure. I stopped being here... and just started existing nearby."

I swallowed hard, throat tight.

"I let your mom carry the love, the listening, the everything. And that wasn't fair. Not to her. Not to you. And now I'm standing here trying to undo years of silence with a few desperate words."

His ice cream was melting. Neither of us moved.

"I love you,"

I said again, more quietly this time, like a vow.

"Not just as my son, but as someone I admire. For your strength. For your heart. For standing up for the woman who carried us both longer than she should've had to."

A pause.

"I just hope it's not too late to be better.""

Jimmy still didn't say anything. .

"As for your mom..."

I paused, swallowing the lump that threatened to cut off my breath.

"I know I hurt her. I didn't see it at first, but now I can't unsee it. I took her for granted. She deserved more from me. And I'm trying to give her space now. Trying to respect what she needs, whether that ends in divorce or something else. But whatever happens, she matters. She always will."

Jimmy's shoulders stiffened slightly, but he didn't pull away when I slowly reached out and took his free hand.

His palm was warm and small in mine—but not that small anymore. When did it get this big? Where have I been?

Time to break the cycle.

I won't be my father—aloof, cruel, demanding. I won't pretend power equals worth. I won't silence myself in the name of pride or keep failing the people I swore to protect. Because now I see it. I see the devastation I've left behind. The pain carved into the silences between my wife and me. The distance in my son's eyes. The weariness in my daughter's voice when she asks if I'm staying for dinner this time.

I see it all.

My ignorance. My absence. My cowardice. But I'm awake now. Finally, and for the first time, I'm not reaching for a fix or a fa?ade. I'm reaching for redemption. Even if I have to earn it one moment, one apology, one step at a time.

"I can't undo the years I lost Jims. I can't erase the nights I wasn't there or the times I brushed you off because I was tired or stressed or selfish. But I can stop the cycle. I will stop it. I want to be the father you deserve. The one your sisters deserve. And the man your mother always deserved."

I paused. Let it sit there between us. Let the wind carry it into the silence.

"Not because I want something back,"

I added, my voice barely more than a breath.

"Not to fix my image. Not to patch the ruins of what I've already broken. But because you deserve that kind of father. Because you always have. From the moment you first opened your eyes and looked at me like I was your whole world... before I ever earned it."

He didn't speak. Didn't look at me. The silence stretched like a thread, fragile and humming, pulled tight between us.

He finished his ice cream.

But he didn't let go of my hand.